The light that morning came
through a crack in the ceiling
with me squatting over a pool,

fed by some endless spring
running far under ground,
unseen, always present.

The water made images of our faces
flat with shadows, asked us
to pause, fed us with wonder,

perplexity, confusion,
hope, disconsolation.
I rose as always

to face every small triumph,
every chaotic disaster,
aching towards the routine,

but changed by an inch: I harbor
now this spring trickling inside,
unseen, always somehow present,

inverting images, translating
between what I can touch
and what I cannot all day long.